


Stay

by Anony_Moouse



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Discussions of death, Kidney Disease, M/M, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 04:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1675022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anony_Moouse/pseuds/Anony_Moouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And that is how love starts. You take a chance, say yes when you could say no. You leap, and hope someone will catch you. But even if you fall, even if it hurts, at least you know you tried.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zayn loves Liam like he hadn’t thought was possible. Will love him until the day he dies.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Please read content warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

> This is self therapy. I had a bad day at work and then this happened. I am sorry for the sad :((
> 
> Inspired by Move, Pen, Move by Shane Koyczan.  
> youtube - /watch?v=S2UmkpAia6Q&feature=kp
> 
> Beautiful poem if you have a moment.

_Life is full of moments. You don’t notice the big ones when they happen. Its only when you look back and realize that a minute, an hour, a day, changed you forever._

_But that’s life._

 

* * *

 

 

            Zayn meets Liam for the first time on a Friday. He is lying beside the bleachers on the campus field, drawing for no other reason than that he loved it. It is the first sunny day spring, and everyone is out. Zayn doesn’t mind the yelling and laughing, as long as he has his space to lose himself in his art. The sounds around become a white noise, the distant cacophony of life, close enough that Zayn can feel the thrum of energy, but far enough away that he is at peace by himself.

            Then someone kicks a football into the middle of Zayn’s pages.

            Pencils and papers fly, caught in the light breeze. Zayn lungs after them, sheets crumbling as he gathers them protectively to his chest before whirling on his attacker.

            But the man running towards him looks horrified. He runs after the wind-carried papers and with clumsy fingers, he gathers the few pages Zayn had missed. He offers them to Zayn, a litany of apologies falling from his lips.

            “I am so sorry, mate, truly didn’t mean to, kicked the ball in the total wrong direction, never meant to hit you…” Zayn frowns and cautiously takes his pages from the other man. He can feel his righteous anger draining away in the face of the frighteningly sincere onslaught of guilt. The man’s voice drops off as he hands Zayn the last page.

            “Is that-” He asks softly, his voice almost reverent, “Is that Nightwing?” Zayn glances down at the sketch, fighting the urge to rip it away, to hide it from the man’s sharp, inquisitive eyes. He lets himself nod. The man’s face breaks into a wide smile,

            “That’s wicked mate! Batman is my favorite in world.”

            “Batman is pretty cool.” Zayn agrees cautiously,

            “I would love to see some of your other drawings?” The man says, grinding the toe of his shoes into the grass, fingers moving restlessly against his leg. The man’s mates are calling to him, calling him back, but the man ignores them in favor of looking at Zayn, “Maybe?” He whispers.

            “Maybe.” Zayn echoes, before clearing his throat. His fingers loosen around his drawings, wrists bending outward to offer the crumpled pages, “You could stay. I could show you.” He isn’t sure why he says it, why he offers, but the slow, brilliant smile taking over the man’s face might have something to do with it.

            The man – Liam, his name is Liam- stays.

 

* * *

 

 

_And that is how love starts. You take a chance, say yes when you could say no. You leap, and hope someone will catch you. But even if_ _you fall, even if it hurts, at least you know for a moment, a quick, brilliant moment, you were happy._

 

* * *

 

            Zayn loves Liam like he hadn’t thought was possible.

            He loves him in the mornings when Liam tries to sneak out of bed quietly, to not wake Zayn as he slips out for a run, as though Zayn could ever not notice Liam’s absence.

            He loves Liam in the evenings, curled together on the couch and talking of everything and nothing, when they would sing to each from across the room, voices arcing together so perfectly it makes Zayn want to cry.

            He loves Liam when they fight, hurling barbed words aimed to hurt because they knew each other too well to not to cause damage. He loves Liam through the bitter silences because he can trust that Liam will stay.

            He loves Liam in the night when their bodies curl together, until he can feel Liam in his bones. He loves the cords in Liam neck, stretched in ecstasy; he loves the feeling of Liam’s work calloused hand on his cock, Liam’s soft lips pulling unwilling moans from his throat.

            He loves falling asleep, sated and warm, his lullaby the steady rhythm of Liam’s heart.

            He loves Liam because he doesn’t know how to not love him.

 

* * *

 

 

_There exists a fragile balance, when you know something is wrong, but to speak of it would make it real. You can pretend, go on with the routine as if by force of will things will remain normal. But it eats at you, because you knows its there._

 

* * *

 

            Zayn lies on his back, hands crossed over his chest and breathes steady. He stares sightlessly up at the roof as he listens to Liam turn and twist next to him.

            “What’s wrong with your side, Liam?” He whispers into the darkness. There was no need to say it louder; they had both been waiting for someone to voice the words.

            “It hurts.” Liam says. Zayn nods, because he knows this. They both know this, know Liam has been shying away from touches, has been avoiding his morning runs. They had both ignored the thickening of Liam’s ankles, the way the skin dented under the press of fingers, the nosebleeds that wouldn’t stop. But ignoring it wasn’t making it go away.

            “It has been for awhile.” Zayn says into the dark. Its easier to voice things in the night, where he can’t see his fears echoed so clearly in Liam’s eyes.

            “I know.” Liam moves until he is curled next to Zayn. Zayn pulls him closer, hand hovering uncertainly over Liam’s side. Never has Zayn doubted that he could touch Liam, that his fingers would bring Liam peace. The possibility that he could cause pain is somehow worse than the terror of knowing what is going on.

            “You need to go to the doctor.” He whispers into Liam’s hair, hands compromising by clutching at Liam’s shoulders.

            Zayn is scared.

 

* * *

 

 

_Life is full of uncertainties. Everyone is born with a finite timeline, but the end is so far off, so ambiguous, you can almost forget it exists. Until life forces you to acknowledge mortality. When the ‘if’ becomes a ‘when’._

 

* * *

 

 

            Zayn follows the echo of fists on leather and finds Liam in the basement. He is attacking his punching bag as though it can somehow carry the blame for this, this thing for which there is no enemy to rail against. Liam punches with a fierceness that would scare Zayn if he didn’t understand.

            The doctors had used big words and long phrases, but all they had meant was that Liam’s blood wasn’t working and it was eating at him from the inside out, starting with his kidneys.

            Zayn walks forward and puts his hand on Liam’s bunched shoulder. Liam is strong and brave and stoic but he has always been willing to crack for Zayn.

            Liam curls into himself; shoulders shaking with a weight no one should know how to bear.

            “It’s not fair.” Liam whispers, just once. Zayn knows he won’t say it again, won’t allow himself the indulgence of pity, but here, right now, there are no pretenses. Zayn wraps himself around Liam, forces his own spine straight where it would crumble, forces his knees to lock where they would buckle. If Liam is willing to be weak for Zayn, than Zayn - even if it takes everything he has - will be strong for both of them.

            Zayn kisses Liam’s knuckles, lips touching the cracked skin. All he can taste is the metallic tang of Liam’s blood: Liam’s broken, impotent blood that they can’t fix.

            It isn’t fair.

 

* * *

 

 

            They say the dialysis is temporary. They can’t fix Liam’s kidneys until they fix his blood and the dialysis will buy them time. Zayn thinks a little surgery is a small price to pay for time.

            It’s a simple procedure to place the dialysis line in Liam’s neck, a three pronged device jutting out of his jugular vein. A tiny piece of gauze covers the incision, and Liam smiles at Zayn as Zayn cards his fingers through Liam’s hair.

            Such a small thing, but it feels a little like hope.  

 

* * *

 

 

            “Zayn. Zayn, wake up.” Zayn opens his eyes, and he has had this nightmare before. Zayn has dreamed of Liam’s panicked eyes, his skin snow white where it wasn’t splashed with bright red blood. Liam is clutching at his neck, his side dark with the steady pulse of blood leaking from beneath his fingers. But with the clarity only panic can bring, Zayn knows this wasn’t a nightmare. At least, not the kind he can escape from by waking.

 

* * *

 

            Liam’s blood won’t clot, they say. They hang blood and platelets and fluids, trying to force life into Liam’s veins, even as it leaks out the cut in his neck, made by their own hands. They won’t let Zayn stay when they change the dressing on Liam’s neck, won’t let him see how much blood Liam is losing. But Zayn can see it in the white skin of Liam’s face, the brave expression Liam only wears because he doesn’t know how to let himself be scared.

            Zayn wants to run. Wants to leave the sterile room with the white washed walls, the sympathetic gazes of the nurses who know too much. He wants to take Liam and run so fast nothing can catch them. But Liam has to stay, hooked up to machines that are keeping his heart pumping. And its all Zayn can do, so he stays too.

 

* * *

 

 

_We are taught to believe in science, taught that we have come so far and learned so much, that there is an answer for everything. It isn’t until the doctor’s stop meeting your eyes, start fidgeting restlessly when you try to talk to them that you realize sometimes there is no cure. Not even science can heal what is broken._

_So you pray. You beg favors from a God you don’t believe in, hope for miracles you don’t think exist. Because blind faith is the only thing left and there is nothing you won’t do if it can make him stay._

 

* * *

 

 

            Liam stops eating. He turns his face away from ice cream and tea, from soup and crisps. He tries, Zayn can see him trembling with the effort, but even Zayn’s homemade samosas turn his stomach.

            He spends his nights heaving into a basin, too weak to walk to the toilet. He brings up bile and blood and no pill or injection can stop the rolling of his stomach.

            Zayn watches Liam – strong, unshakable Liam – melt away. The hallows of his cheeks catch the shadows, the bruised skin under his eyes is ever present. His arms are like knobbed sticks, jutting out from the folds of his hospital gown.   

            Liam tries to duck away from Zayn’s kisses, unsteady smile telling the story of one who never understood his own worth. But Zayn kisses him anyway, peppers the craters of his cheeks and caresses the cracked skin of Liam’s lips. Because to Zayn, he is beautiful- could never not be because he is Liam.

            So Zayn covers the walls of Liam’s room in drawings, of superheroes and villains, of friends and family. He uses his pencil to make Liam a hero, a caped crusader destroying all enemies in his path. Zayn draws Liam a victory, because it’s the only thing he can give him.

 

* * *

 

_You realize doctors are just men playing god, trying pill after pill to fight something they can’t comprehend. You can ask them how or what and they will answer with long, rambling sentences that you need a degree to understand. But if you ask them why- why him, why now- they stutter and stop and turn away._

_Because no one can tell you why._

* * *

 

            “There is an abscess in your abdomen, and it’s growing.” The doctor says, his hands in the pocket of his white coat, his gaze firmly focused on Liam’s belly. Zayn doesn’t know his name, gave up trying after each specialist and internist and surgeon failed to fix Liam. “The only way to get rid of it is with surgery.” Zayn nods, hands tightly wrapped around Liam’s. Liam doesn’t have the strength to grip Zayn back; Zayn is willing to hold on tight enough for both of them

            “Ok.” Zayn says, “Lets do it.” But the doctor bites his lip and glances at the door of the room as though he wants to run. Zayn can feel a pressure build behind his eyes and his hand spasms around Liam’s.

            “We can’t stop the bleeding.” The doctor says quickly as if, like ripping off a bandage, it will make the hurt smaller. “If we tried to operate, Liam would bleed out. No surgeon will even try.”

            “But.” Liam stumbles over the words, his voice weak, but he has the strength to speak where Zayn is unable to force sounds from his dry throat, “You said that was the only way to treat it.” The doctor draws in a sharp breath and nods, a stuttering, uneven motion. Zayn wishes he didn’t understand, that there was room for misinterpretation in what the doctor is saying. But Zayn has gotten too good at reading between the lines.

            Oh god. He buries his face in Liam’s hair, just to hide his face for a moment.

            Oh, God.

* * *

_Doctors don’t understand death. They are champions of life, do everything they can to preserve it. But like any warrior, when they have to admit defeat, they crumble and stumble, unsure of what to do._

_They pull you aside and say things like ‘palliation’ and ‘comfort care’. They ask if you understand and you nod because you do. You know what the words mean, you just can’t see how they could possibly apply to someone you love, how anyone can put an expiration date on his life._

* * *

 

 

            “Draw me a picture, Zayn.” Liam’s voice is reedy, as fragile as his paper-thin skin. His walls are covered with Zayn’s pictures, paintings and sketches, comics and diagrams, old and new. But Zayn will make space for another one, if that is what Liam wants.

            So Zayn puts his pencil to paper, scratching lines of lead into the soft white of the page. He doesn’t realize he is tracing the lines of Liam’s smile until it is grinning up at him. Liam is in everything; Zayn’s conscious and unconscious thoughts, even in his pencils. The lead point shatters as Zayn presses it against the page, silvery splinters covering the beginnings of Liam’s face.

            “I can’t.” Zayn whispers, eyes locked on the ruined drawing, “I can’t make you better. What use is any of this if it doesn’t make you better?” Zayn rips his hand across the table, not caring as pencils and papers skitter across the floor, crumbled and broken. Instead, he grabs Liam’s hands, shuddering at the cool, dry feel of his skin. He pulls them to his lips, kisses the precious pulse in his wrist and begs, “Please tell me what to do.” Zayn doesn’t care that his voice is as splintered as his pencil, doesn’t care that his hands are shaking or that he is breath is as shallow and quick as Liam’s. “Tell me how to fix this. Please.” Liam pulls one hand free, but only to rest it against Zayn’s overheated cheek. Zayn leans into his touch but he can’t look up, can’t meet Liam’s eyes that are saying everything they never needed to voice.

            “Draw.” Liam whispers, “Draw me a picture to make me happy. That’s all I need, Zayn”. And Zayn breathes, and nods.

            So he draws this. He draws them happy. Sketches the lines of their hands intertwined, the shape of how they fit together, of how he isn’t whole without Liam.

            He begs him through drawings the words he can’t voice.

            Stay 

* * *

 

 

_You have to come in, they say. Now._

_You go._

 

* * *

 

 

            They stop him before he gets to Liam’s room. Zayn wants to shake off their hands, yell at them for keeping him from Liam. But some small part of him is selfishly glad of the interruption. If he doesn’t go into the room, than it isn’t real. The midnight phone call never happened, and tomorrow Liam will smile at him again. Zayn is good at imagining.

            A nurse leads him to a hard backed chair, and makes him sit.

            “We are getting him something for pain. Just give him a moment.” Her face is lined by time, but soft with an empathy Zayn can’t bear to look at.

            “What happened?” like knowing will give him an answer, as through the answer will give him a solution.

            “We think the abscess may have ruptured.” She says softly, and Zayn feels the words in his bones.

            “You said we had months.” Zayn says, as though it is something he can argue. So though he could barter with death for the time he was promised, the moments he was counting on.

            The nurse places a gentle hand on Zayn’s shoulder, and he wants to shrug it off because he isn’t sure he can handle the kindness.

            “He is dying.” It’s the first time someone has said the words. They have blatantly implied it, and danced around it but no one has said it. Zayn stares at the white tile beneath his feet until his eyes blur; he can feel the cold seeping through his shoes. The ward is quiet but for the beep of monitors and the sounds of sleep. Zayn wants to scream, can feel the pressure building in his chest, clawing at his throat. He isn’t ready for this. He hasn’t had enough time; could never have enough time to be ready.

          

* * *

 

_You can spend a lifetime reading and learning, but there are some things you can’t know until they happening to you, that you can’t prepare for until there are here. Every beginning comes with the promise of an end, but that doesn’t mean you are ever ready, can ever be ready. Because humans are born with hope, the stupid, agonizing belief that maybe things will get better. But that doesn’t mean they will._

 

* * *

 

            The nurse leads him to Liam’s room; he follows on deadened feet. They had shifted Liam over to one side of the bed, and Zayn can only stare at the tiny form of the man he loves, at the space he no longer takes up.

            “Go,’ the nurse says, “Go to him now.” And he goes. He holds his breathe as he lowers himself on to the bed, the moment so fragile that the thought of breaking it makes Zayn’s eyes burn, his throat seize.

            Liam eyes are half open, but glazed. His breath is coming in uneven pants, his chest moving with irregular shudders. He is here but not, awake but not aware. They have turned off the machines, disconnected the wires. There is nothing they can tell Zayn that he doesn’t already know.

            Zayn eases himself across the narrow bed, and gathers Liam into his arms. Liam wasn’t awake but he head still falls onto Zayn, into the hallow between neck and shoulder, that place Zayn always thought of as Liam’s.  Zayn can feel the disconnected puffs of Liam’s breath. He tightens his arms around Liam, holds him like he can keep him here. Even if he can’t, it wasn’t because he didn’t try.

            “I love you.” Zayn whispers into Liam’s hair, and he believes that Liam is listening, even if he can no longer say the words. Zayn has to believe that he can hear. _Please stay_ , he doesn’t say. _I don’t know how to do this without you. I don’t want to learn._

            “I’ll be ok.” Zayn lies, his voice steady only by a force of will he didn’t know he had, “You can sleep now. I’m here.”

            And Liam goes.

 

* * *

 

 

_We don’t understand death. That something that is alive can in the next moment be gone. That someone who made you smile, and laugh and cry is suddenly no longer here. We don’t understand how we carry on, how we hold their memories as we once held their hand’s. We may never understand._

_But that’s life._


End file.
